


In This Life and the Next

by chicago_ruth



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Forced Marriage, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Public Claiming, Public Humiliation, Ritual Sex, Soul Bond, Truth Serum, Victim Treated Like a Lover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-01-12 04:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18439337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/pseuds/chicago_ruth
Summary: Dumisani's plans to overthrow Nkosi fall apart, and he's presented with the choice of either marrying Nkosi or being thrown to the lions.It's not a choice at all.Yet the wedding is not what Dumisani imagined, a humiliating affair with much more serious consequences than he could ever have known.





	In This Life and the Next

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noimi/gifts).



“You have to try this,” Nkosi said, offering a glass of wine. “It’s from Queen Ayo’s personal stores. I think her wine collection had wines from at least one hundred years ago.”

Dumisani took the glass, grimacing when he noticed that Nkosi didn’t pour any for himself, opting instead for one of the local wines.

Across the room, Nkosi settled onto his large chair. His second throne, Dumisani always called it; the first one was in the grand hall, a large room with murals, textiles, and mosaics to remind you of just how wealthy and powerful Nkosi was.

This second throne was actually the first one, if Dumisani were to believe Nkosi’s stories. He had no reason to doubt them; he’d heard the tale of how Nkosi had slain the elephant bull whose bones and hide had been used to make that throne. For any other man, it might have been fantastical. For Nkosi, it was within the realm of possible, protected as he was by his mother’s divinity.

His divine mother hadn’t given him just incredible strength, either. He was handsome, with a strong jaw and fierce eyes. He kept his hair in long dreads with beads threaded throughout, then pulled back into a half ponytail.

Dumisani had let his hair grow long to mimic Nkosi, although on Nkosi’s insistence he’d kept it loose rather than twist it into locs. Nkosi liked Dumisani’s curls.

Nkosi liked a lot about Dumisani.

“We should toast!” Nkosi said, holding up his glass.  “To a successful partnership. To many more years of conquest. To your beautiful eyes.”

Dumisani didn’t raise his glass. The cushions he was sitting on might as well have been made of rock without how tense he was.

Nkosi, of course, noticed. “Aren’t you going to toast?” He stood up, his skirts rustling, and crossed the distance between them. He stroked the sides of Dumisani’s face, pulling lightly on some of the beard hairs. “What’s the matter, Dumi?”

“Is the wine poisoned?” Dumisani asked.

Nkosi’s eyebrows shot up, and he made an exaggerated expression. “Poisoned? Why would you think that, darling?”

“The fact that you haven’t taken any for yourself.” Dumisani pushed Nkosi’s hand away. “I know you, Nkosi.”

“That you do!” Nkosi laughed and settled onto the bench next to Dumisani. He put away his own glass of wine and took hold of the one he’d poured for Dumisani, lifting it up to Dumisani’s lips. “Drink.”

Dumisani thought of refusing, but yes, he did know Nkosi. He knew that Nkosi was jovial when things went his way, and that his cruelty knew no depths when he was angry. In the early years, that cruelty had seemed justified. In the early years, that cruelty was simply a means to an end.

They needed to present a strong face so that the neighboring kingdoms didn’t think to invade. It had taken Nkosi years to overthrow the previous rulers, who had subjugated their people and tried to kill their culture. If they appeared weak, if they tolerated dissent, then somebody might try once again to erase them.

Well, nobody thought to erase them now. But Nkosi’s still couldn’t allow weakness to show. His ego couldn’t stand criticism. His ego couldn’t stand dissent. And ten years on, it was hard to tell the difference between Nkosi’s rule and that of his predecessor.

Dumisani opened his mouth and allowed Nkosi to pour the wine in.

“It isn’t poison,” Nkosi remarked. “You know poison doesn’t affect me. And if I simply wanted to murder you, well. I have much more interesting ways of doing that.”

The wine was sweet on his tongue but tingled as he swallowed. He couldn’t help grimacing as the wine settled heavily in his stomach.

After setting the wine glass aside, Nkosi began petting Dumisani’s hair and kissing his jaw. “There’s no need to be so wary, Dumi. I’d never hurt you. You know that I love you.”

“Do I know that?” Dumisani asked. He tried to scoot away from Nkosi, but wasn’t surprised when Nkosi stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Why would you think I don’t love you?”

Dumisani’s mind felt fuzzy as he answered, “I don’t think you know how to love at all.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to play it off as a jealousy issue. He’d prepared an entire speech about the recent string of men and women throwing themselves at Nkosi. Jealousy, at least, could be understood.

For the first time that evening, Nkosi’s expression slipped from his good-natured façade to the monstrous one that lurked beneath.

“Of course I know how to love. Don’t be hurtful. Now tell me about the coup you’re staging.”

Fuck. Dumisani threw Nkosi’s arm off him and jumped to his feet. He didn’t get far; Nkosi grabbed his wrist and pulled him down forcefully. Dumisani landed in Nkosi’s lap, with Nkosi’s arms wrapped around him.

“Well? Answer the question, Dumi.”

It hadn’t been poison in the wine, but something much worse—a serum that demanded truth. Dumisani had seen Nkosi use it once on an ambassador. The ambassador had ended up revealing all manner of secrets, all before Nkosi had him stripped, beaten, and then thrown into the army barracks to be enjoyed by all.

“We were going to strike in a month,” Dumisani found himself saying. “During the independence festival. Fuck!”

Nkosi laughed and pressed a kiss to the back of Dumisani’s neck. “How quaint. You thought I’d be less protected?”

“We thought—I know—the palace would be unguarded, since all the soldiers would be on the streets for the military parade.” Dumisani’s voice shook from the strain of trying to stop himself. “If we took the palace—”

“You’d have a building,” Nkosi said. “You’d have a building for a few days, at most. And I would still be the son of a goddess. Who are your co-conspirators?”

Dumisani couldn’t stop the string of names from escaping, no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t want to betray them. They all trusted him. They needed him to be strong, to keep Nkosi distracted and off guard.

By the time the last name he knew slipped from his lips, he was shivering. All the while, Nkosi kept petting and kissing him and asking him for more.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Dumisani asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. His skin crawled from Nkosi’s touch.

Nkosi huffed into his ear. “Honestly, I should feed you to the lions. But I like you too much for that.” He forced Dumisani to turn his head and then pressed their lips together, a sloppy kiss that spread spit across Dumisani’s jaw.

“No, killing you would be a complete waste.” Nkosi unceremoniously dumped Dumisani to the floor, and Dumisani hissed in pain. “I have a much better idea. How do you feel about a wedding?”

Still dazed from the impact, it took Dumisani a moment to register what Nkosi had said. “A wedding? Whose?”

“Yours and mine, of course.” Nkosi smiled down at him. “Do say yes. Otherwise I’m afraid I really will have to throw you to the lions.”

He’d seen the people torn apart by the lions, yet he still wavered for a moment before he resigned himself to his fate. If he hadn’t already betrayed everybody, maybe he would still have chosen that brutal death.

But everything was already lost.

“Yes.”

* * *

He should have known that it wouldn’t be a normal wedding.

They didn’t tell him anything about the ceremony itself, of course; Dumisani was kept locked up in one of the guest suites, accompanied by two attendants and three guards at all times.

He received no privacy, Nkosi having made it clear to all that anybody who allowed Dumisani even a moment to himself would be part of the wedding’s entertainment, along with any number of large, carnivorous animals. So they all followed him into the baths and watched as he washed. They watched as he relieved himself too, which was so much more humiliating than mere nudity.

A week later one of the attendants woke Dumisani before dawn and said that it was time to get ready for the celebrations.

They washed him and shaved him all over. He thought of fighting—taking that razor and slashing it across their throats—but he would never be able to overwhelm all of them, and in the end, they were as much a victim of Nkosi as he was. So he sat quietly while they oiled his skin and put oils into his hair that made it loosen and hang down his back.

“Is this a joke?” he asked when he saw the wedding attire.

“No. Our lord had this tailor-made for you. He wants the world to see your beauty.”

They would certainly see. The fabric was so sheer, that it would be easier to list the parts of his body that weren’t visible. The loose “pants”—really just two pant legs that didn’t connect with each other—were held in place with a gold chain that attached around his waist, around his cock, and connected to a plug.

“I can insert that myself,” Dumisani protested.

“No. Our lord insisted we do it for you,” the attendant said. Dumisani was made to lean forward over the bed while one attendant held his back down and the other applied oil to his hole. The attendant worked the plug in slowly, deliberately playing with Dumisani’s ass and pushing it against his prostate.

“Does _our lord_ also insist you fuck me?” Dumisani demanded. He gritted his teeth and tried to stave off the pleasure, but he couldn’t stop his body from reacting.

 “Oh, yes. Your desire for him should be visible to all, he said.”

Visible meant _unsated_ , at least. Dumisani wasn’t surprised when the attendants broke off that little game and flipped him onto his back so they could access his now hard cock. They snapped a long metal tube around it and then attached thin chains from that to the collar around his neck. His cock would not be allowed to hang between his legs. With some disgust Dumisani noticed that his cock had already begun leaking. Neither of the attendants made any move to wipe it off.

They tied fabric around his arms that might have resembled loose sleeves, except they didn’t connect to anything. His chest was bare save for the sparkling gold nipple rings—nipple rings he’d gotten some years back because Nkosi had suggested it.

“I look like a concubine, not a bride,” Dumisani complained.

“Is there a difference?”

To Nkosi, probably not.

He balked when the second attendant approached with a strap of golden cloth with a smooth ivory bulb attached to the center. “I don’t need to be gagged. I’m cooperating.”

“Our lord insisted. It’s part of the ceremony.” The attendant held the gag up, and Dumisani wanted to lock his mouth shut, but he knew it wouldn’t make a difference in the long run. So he opened his mouth and allowed the attendant to push the smooth ivory in.

It wasn’t all that long, but the tip of it had been carved to resemble a phallus. He couldn’t help feel it with his tongue. There was no way not to touch it, and he blinked his eyes against the sudden tears that threatened.

The attendants were pleased though. They went on to place jewelry on him—rings, necklaces, bracelets, ankle rings. No shoes, though, he noticed.

The final touch on his wedding attire was a tiara of pearls that attached to the straps of the gag and hung down his forehead.

Time for his wedding ceremony. His cock ached as they walked through the palace, held in place by the device and unable to shrink back.

Nkosi was waiting for them outside the grand hall, dressed in an elaborately woven long robe that was embroidered in gold and silver thread. Around his shoulders was the pelt of a white lion. He wore his own jewelry, and the usual beads in his hair had been exchanged with a matching silver and gold set. He’d wasted no expense on his own clothing, and he looked very much like a prince on his wedding day.

He smiled brightly when he saw Dumisami and pressed a kiss to his cheek, above the gag’s straps.

“You look stunning. Do you like the gag? I had it fashioned from the remnants of the bull elephant I slew in my youth. I knew there was a reason I saved some of the ivory.” He pushed his thumb against the sides of Dumisani’s stretched-wide mouth and rubbed some of the spit away. “Lovely! Let’s commence with the ceremony.”

Nkosi gestured to one of the others in the room. He was dressed like an acolyte, though Dumisani didn’t recognize him from any of the local temples. The acolyte took hold of the chain connecting Dumisani’s cock to the collar around his neck.

“Follow me.” The acolyte didn’t wait for a reaction; he started pulling, forcing Dumisani to follow or risk choking—or feeling his cock getting stretched.

 Every step jostled the plug in his ass, and from the way everything tingled, he suspected the oils they’d used on him had extra effects. Even the tugs on the chain were starting to feel pleasurable. More precome dribbled out of his slit.

They stepped into the grand hall, which had been completely redecorated with wedding streamers and fine tapestries. Musicians on the balcony played the flute and drums. Benches filled with guests lined the sides of the hall, everybody dressed in their finest. Every single one of them stared at him, some very blatantly focusing on his exposed privates.

Very few would meet his eyes.

And then, near the front, he saw some very familiar faces.

He nearly choked on the gag when he realized what Nkosi had done. That entire row was filled with people Dumisani had been forced to name. Many of them didn’t know each other—but they must have suspected that something was wrong. Some of them were of the kind of rank that they would receive a personal invitation to sit near the front of Nkosi’s wedding, but a few of them were too low-born for that.

The presence of guards on all sides couldn’t have escaped their attention either.

Dumisani wished he’d been blindfolded. He didn’t need to see the anger or betrayal in their eyes. He didn’t need to see their pity. And one face even held obvious lust, despite the situation.

He averted his gaze.

At the end of the hall, where the throne normally sat, an altar had been arranged. It carried the usual honors for Nkosi’s mother, but the center of it was painted in the ancient language of their ancestors, long forgotten by most. Nkosi was one of the few that could still read it. He’d attempted to teach Dumisani, but Dumisani had a hard enough time with modern writing; he simply didn’t have the head for languages like Nkosi did.

He wished now that he’d paid more attention. He was certain that nothing good was written on that altar. A priest stood behind the altar, his face painted in holy symbols.

The acolyte made Dumisani stand in the front of the altar and face the audience, presenting him to them. He didn’t attempt to cover himself, though; he knew it was pointless and would earn him censure. At least he was standing still now, no longer forced to feel the plug rubbing his insides.

The music stopped.

“Behold, all, the holy consort our lord Nkosi has chosen!” the priest said. His voice echoed in the hall, which had been designed to carry sound in all directions.

The audience clapped, a strange staccato sound that didn’t hold nearly enough enthusiasm.

The priest held up his hand, and the awkward clapping stopped.

Then the music started up again, this time accompanied by singing. It was a variation of the national anthem, which praised Nkosi for all of his deeds. The guests all stood and started clapping their hands in time to the beat, all while Nkosi made his own way down the length of the hall, smiling and waving.

His smile turned sinister when he passed the bench surrounded by the guards; if the people seated there had any doubts before that Nkosi knew of their plans, this would have erased them all.

And then Nkosi reached the altar, and he took Dumisani’s hands into his own, bringing them up and to his lips and kissing them.

Dumisani glared, but Nkosi simply smiled back.

“I’m so happy,” Nkosi said. “You are truly the most beautiful of my possessions.”

The singing and music slowed and stopped at a gesture from the priest.

The priest held up his hands and said, “Everybody! I present to you our great lord Nkosi, your leader and savior! He who restored our people to their former glory! He who protects and guides our society, so that we may spread across all lands!”

The guests all stood and cheered, hooting and stomping their feet and generally making their love for Nkosi known. Even the other rebels participated, perhaps in some vain hope they weren’t doomed yet.

Nkosi basked in it all, holding up his arms and blowing kisses in the direction of the guests.

After a good five minutes, Nkosi signaled for everybody to quiet down.

“My beloved people! I thank all of you for gathering here with me today on this most glorious day.” Nkosi settled a hand on the small of Dumisani’s back. “You all know Dumisani, of course. My light, my love. He has stood by my side for the past seven years, followed me in my conquests and helped me slay enemies from outside and within. There is no one who is more worthy than him to be my partner, in this life or the next.”

The next?

Nkosi continued, “We celebrate today not just my marriage in this mortal plane, but on the spiritual plane as well, as our ancestors did before we were robbed of our traditions!”

Dumisani tried to remember if Nkosi had ever spoken of this ritual, one of the many he’d unearthed throughout the years. The old rituals had been lost to them, stripped after decades and centuries of conquerors forbidding their traditions and cultures. But Nkosi, with the help of his divine Mother, had rediscovered and rebuilt so many of them.

“We will bind ourselves to each other, body and soul!” Nkosi shouted, and the crowd cheered in response, as expected.

The actual words of the ceremony went by in a blur. Dumisani couldn’t understand half of what the priest was saying, the modern language mixed with the old one. He recognized entreaties to the divine Mother, prayers for prosperity and longevity and unity of soul, but the rest was incomprehensible.

At some point, the writings on the altar started to glow. Dumisani stared at them, and was suddenly glad for the gag. He didn’t think he’d have been able to keep quiet otherwise. He had a vague memory of Nkosi admiring the old ways, the marriages in which the happy couple was bound together for all eternity.

It was supposed to be metaphorical. But the glowing script had Dumisani’s blood stopping cold.

And then the acolyte forced Dumisani to bend over the altar, his ass to the audience. His chest lay directly over the central rune. The flimsy fabric was easily pushed aside, allowing the acolyte to access the plug. He pulled it out, and the sudden loss of the weight was a relief, even as he felt some of the oil slip down his thigh. Even though he knew his hole would be puffy and red, exposed for all to see.

“Dumisani has been waiting to receive our lord’s gift!” the priest said. “Watch all, as Nkosi fills him with seed, their bodies one, their souls united!”

Dumisani closed his eyes and blinked away the tears. The acolyte held on to Dumisani’s hands, as if afraid that Dumisani might attempt to struggle.

There was no point. If he struggled, he was sure his fate would be even worse.

“Dumi, my Dumi. I am so happy that you agreed to this,” Nkosi said as he stroked Dumisani’s hole. “Our pleasure will be shared with the people. As we prosper, so will the people prosper. You will ever be by my side.”

 _Just get on with it_ , Dumisani thought.

He tried to focus on the smooth stone of the altar, or the soft music still being played. But the drumbeat picked up, and Nkosi lined himself up against Dumisani’s back.

If only it had hurt. It didn’t. They’d well and truly loosened him up, and the oil had made him sensitive. Beyond that, though, was the fact that Nkosi knew him. They’d fucked often enough, and Nkosi new exactly how to draw pleasure out of Dumisani. He started with shallow thrusts that made Dumisani’s body yearn for more, even while tears and drool dripped down Dumisani’s face.

The gag didn’t stop moans or grunts from escaping his lips. He’d hoped he wouldn’t make any noise, but with how the hall was designed, his pathetic sounds echoed across the room, mingling with Nkosi’s grunts and gentle praises.

On occasion Nkosi even lovingly stroked Dumisani’s back.

“I love you so much, darling,” Nkosi said for all to hear.

If only it were true. If only Dumisani could believe anything that came out of Nkosi’s lips.

He was thankful, at least, for the cold marble of the altar. The tip of his cock occasionally rubbed against it, and it was unpleasant enough that he was able to stave off some of the pleasure.

Of course, under other circumstances he would have wanted to stave off orgasm just to prolong the experience. Some years ago, before Dumisani had become disenchanted with Nkosi, they’d spent an entire night together like this, with Nkosi keeping Dumisani on the edge of orgasm, denying him in the most delicious way.

Fuck. He felt his entire body growing hot. At first he thought it was in reaction to the fucking, but he realized then that the altar itself was heating up. The runes glowed and burned his skin.

His muffled panic melded perfectly with the priest’s renewed chanting.

Distressingly, the pleasure that had before been a simple nuisance had ratcheted up, and his entire body ached for release. He did start to struggle then, and if not for the acolyte holding his wrists, he would have lashed out.

Then Nkosi reached down and fondled his balls, and he couldn’t stop himself from coming. He felt Nkosi’s release not a moment later, and that seemed to prolong his own orgasm, waves and waves of pleasure overwhelming him.

He sobbed in humiliation.

When Nkosi pulled out, he gently petted Dumisani’s back. “We are one! Can you feel me, beloved?”

Could he? Dumisani turned his head to the side, the spit on his face smearing. He saw Nkosi’s sinister smile, and something pulled on his heart. It felt like a string had been tied around him, and the other end of it was wrapped around Nkosi’s wrist. He almost thought he could see it, too, a bright, glowing line that vibrated when Nkosi moved.

He blinked, and the vision was gone.

Nkosi lowered his robes and turned to face the guests. “My friends! The ceremony was a success! Dumisani and I are now bound forever, in this life and all the next!”

The acolyte let go of Dumisani and stepped away, while the priest called on everybody to form a line so they might greet the newly bonded couple.

If he’d had any energy left, Dumisani might have struggled. But he could do nothing but lay there as a stream of people began to walk past the altar. They all congratulated Nkosi, and as they walked past him, Nkosi directed them to take a good look at Dumisani’s hole.

“Proof of our love,” Nkosi said. “Feel free to touch him.”

And touch they did. The first simply brushed his ass, but the hands became more and more brazen, perhaps assured when Nkosi did nothing but laugh and thank them for their well wishes. Some of the fingers even went so far as to penetrate Dumisani completely, digging around in there to feel Nkosi’s seed.

He didn’t know how many people touched him. He didn’t bother trying to count. His mind drifted away as he wondered exactly what Nkosi’s bond would mean.

Finally all the touching stopped, and the hall grew quiet. Dumisani groaned when Nkosi manhandled him into sitting upright on the altar and pulled the gag out.

“You did so well for me,” Nkosi said, kissing the corner of Dumisani’s mouth. “Your sounds—your ass—”

“I hate you,” Dumisani whispered. His voice cracked horribly and his jaw ached.

“Oh, I know. But I don’t really care.” Nkosi reached down and began to massage Dumisani’s balls. “Mine, forever. I really should have done this ages ago, before you got all those silly ideas of rebellion in your head.”

Dumisani wished he’d chosen the lions.


End file.
